


There's Magic in the Night

by Ress



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Kissing, Love at First Sight, M/M, Nights - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 13:53:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3770671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ress/pseuds/Ress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Tell me, why do you think the traffic signals stay green all night?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's Magic in the Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic, though I've loved this fandom for years, so any comments would be greatly appreciated.

John woke with a start. Memories of the war rushed into his mind for a few minutes, until he pulled himself out of the dream and into reality. He took a few gasping breaths, looking around his small apartment. Bed, desk, kitchen. Nothing else; an army pension wasn’t enough to afford luxuries. He rubbed his face, still sorting himself out. One more sleepless night in a long string. Soon the vivid pain of the dream faded into clarity, leaving him with nothing but the faint sounds of cars outside; one, then two passing by. He had gone to bed at eight; what time was it? He gave his alarm clock, a cheap basic model, a cursory glance. 10:11. Only two hours? At least he had made it longer than the previous night.

There was no way he could fall back asleep now, not with the adrenaline coursing through his veins in an instinctive effort to keep him alive in a firefight. He sat up and realized with a rueful grin he must have somehow fallen asleep with his clothes on: a beige sweater and jeans, trying to keep out the cold that seemed to creep into everything in this town this time of year. He thought for a moment, weighed his choices. He could stay here and futilely try to fall back asleep; or, he could go for a walk.

Walking was something John loved to do; took the edge off things, you know? he would tell his friend Mike, who had never been to war and could not possibly understand what edge there needed to be taken off.

He shrugged off the plain, army issue bedding he bought from the surplus store to make himself feel more at home and grabbed his sneakers. They were plain also, like much of his life; an off-brand because he couldn’t afford anything fancy. As he laced them up, he took a look around his life, really looked, and realized that it was all so _normal_ , so _mundane_ and he _hated_ it, hated it with a burning passion, and he had to get out, even if it was just for one night, because the mundanity of his life was going to suffocate him if he didn’t. He finished lacing his shoes up and grabbed his coat. It was black, a military style that he felt comfortable in, perhaps not quite warm enough for the weather, but he was used to harsh climates. He shrugged it on, putting his wallet in his back pocket and his apartment key in the front. Without a second’s glance round the apartment, he opened the door and stepped out into the night.

John liked walking, especially at night, when the green traffic signals would stay green all night, wishing on the stars above for a car to come by. He liked the peace and the quiet, and he liked the safety of the silence. It was a place he could get lost in, and somehow found at the same time. As he walked he passed no people, no druggies or homeless this time of night in the chilly air. He liked being alone, liked being sure of himself and having only his thoughts to keep him company. He walked his usual route, then turned a corner on a whim, into an area he’d never been to. He saw the bright lights of a 24-hour place, and he started towards it, at least in the hope of a decent cup of tea. When he went inside, there wasn’t a waiter, but there was a man sitting by the windows. Somehow man was too common a word for him; he had soft brown hair that fell in waves around his face, a bow mouth that was sensual and beautiful but would have looked ridiculous on anyone else, and piercing eyes, so pale they were green or blue, he couldn’t be sure. The man gestured to the bench in front of him. There was a fey madness in his eyes, as if they would burn the soul out of you if they looked too close. John thrived on danger. He could hardly wait to meet this man. “John Hamish Watson,” he said, feeling a bit silly about the middle name but there was nothing to be done about it now. The man smiled, a beautiful smile that lit up all those fine aristocratic features.

“Sherlock Holmes. I’m afraid I don’t have a middle name,” he said with a gentle smirk. It was only then that John noticed the discrepancies in the beautiful creature’s clothing. His exquisite dark blue coat had been worn so many times the buttonhole on the top had been sewed over in a garish shade of red.  His soft blue scarf was threadbare, and there was something else in his eyes, a craving for danger that John recognized all too well. Sherlock interrupted his thoughts. “Tell me, why do the traffic signals stay green all night?”

John considered his answer. There was the obvious, but then Sherlock did not deserve the obvious; no, he deserved the poetry, the mad ramblings and the magic that John could occasionally weave with words.

“The lights stay green all night because they wish upon the stars to send someone their way, anyone, to give them a reason for being.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up, and John had the distinct feeling he had passed some sort of test. It was then that he realized he had not even been presented with a menu. Sherlock seemed to read his mind, and with a secretive grin said, “Would you like to go somewhere else?”

John nodded, perhaps too emphatically.

They left the diner, John holding the door for Sherlock because it seemed like the right thing to do, and they walked. “You were in the army,” Sherlock began with a slight trepidation to his voice, as if he was afraid he would be rejected. John nodded.

“Field surgeon. I patched men together as they were being blown apart. What do you do anyway?” he said congenially, but noticed that he struck a nerve when Sherlock’s brilliant eyes misted over.

“Not much really. Mummy left a trust so…” He paused. “I do experiments. It’s fun. Passes the time.” But John was not stupid, and he recognized the signs of a fading black eye, but he didn’t worry too much. Already a sense of calm, of the universe righting itself was settling over them, and on a whim he took Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock didn’t seem surprised at all; rather, he squeezed back, and they walked like that, hand in hand, through the night.

It felt so right to walk hand in hand with someone. John had always been afraid to disclose his inclinations to his comrades in arms, and even less so now that he was home, but somehow he had found someone, a beautiful mystical creature that could not be defined by mere _words_ ; and yet this creature chose him, wanted _him_ , and it gave John a heady rush of joy that perhaps he had found that person, the one he could spend his life with. Why he knew this he wasn’t sure, and then he looked at Sherlock, at those soft curls and fine cheekbones, and realized it didn’t matter, because they had tonight.

They didn’t speak as they walked; words were not necessary to convey all the myriad of feelings they had. Eventually they approached a 7-Eleven, its neon sign shining in the dark night. Sherlock leaned in close, and in the softest sexy purr whispered, “Buy me some cloves?” John nodded, not trusting his voice, and went inside. He bought a simple black Bic and a pack of clove cigarettes. When he went outside, Sherlock was leaning against the brick wall in the unlit side of the store. John leaned with him, opening the cloves and getting them each one before lighting them. Sherlock took a long drag, and John realized he could watch him smoke forever; those sensual bow lips making love to the clove, coaxing sweet smoke down into his lungs only to be exhaled in a perfect stream into the night. John savored his cigarette, savored the peace of just smoking with this facinating person.

He looked down and laced their hands together again and the look of sheer joy at this simple act on Sherlock's face was enough to make his eyes mist. Had no one been kind to him before, never told him how amazing he was? And then he looked at John and all those thoughts melted away because he was _here_ , with _John_ , and that was all that mattered, those big pale eyes and soft hair and sweet smile that John fancied was reserved for him and him alone and he realized he could never let him go. He opened his mouth, poised to say something, _You’re fantastic_ or _You’re amazing_ or _I am completely hopelessly in love with you_ when the clock tower chimed twelve midnight and Sherlock kissed him. It was soft, gentle and hesitant, until John dragged their bodies together and kissed him harder, dropping the cigarettes, kissed him properly, passionately, with all the love and tenderness and fiery passion that was built up inside of him, and Sherlock kissed back just as fierce, claiming John with every gasping touch of lips, _you’re mine you're mine you're mine_ until they finally parted and John said what he finally knew was the right thing to say. “I am yours.”

And Sherlock’s eyes lit up like it was Christmas, and he grinned so wide it seemed his face would split. And then he composed himself, and in an oddly formal tone he stood straight and looked John in the eyes and said, “You are mine and I am yours.”

John started laughing, he couldn’t help it. What were the chances, of all the people in all the cities he had ever travelled in, that he would find the love of his life in a 24-hour diner with terrible service? He laughed and laughed and soon Sherlock joined in, and then they ran. They ran past all the green lights, which were waiting for someone after all, and they stayed green the entire time as if bestowing their blessing on the two runners in the night.

They took off to the abandoned field by mutual unspoken consent, running until their lungs gave out and they made it there and finally collapsed. After they caught their breaths, Sherlock laid down his coat as a blanket and they lay down. John was unsure of the arrangements at first, then Sherlock curled up to him like a large cat and snuggled close, and John had the certain feeling that he never wanted to be anywhere else. “Look,” Sherlock’s voice was soft, pointing to the night sky where they could see so many stars. “There’s Orion, and Sirius,” he whispered. John knew his constellations too, and pointed more out in a soft whisper so as to not spoil the moment. “Lyra, with Vega above us, and Hercules,” he added. Eventually speaking died off and they curled up together and kissed, their body heat keeping each other warm until the dawn began to break over the horizon, casting a soft grey across the sky. They stood and walked, passing the silent town in quiet reflection, still hand in hand. The dawn breaking across the sky had caused the traffic lights to change back to red. John considered this with a sort of sadness that the night was indeed over until Sherlock led them to a rather nice townhouse. He paused, that uncertain look returning to his eyes.

“You don’t have to, I don’t know if this was just a one night with you, but…” his face took on the pains of anxiety. “Would you like to room with me? There’s two bedrooms…” John laughed, hopeful and joy-filled.

“I don’t think we’ll be needing two bedrooms, love.” And it came so naturally, the endearment, that all they could do was stare at each other, reveling in the divine act of the cosmos, fate, whatever it was that had brought them together. Finally Sherlock broke the quiet, murmuring in that soft sexy voice of his, “We can get your stuff in the morning. Come to bed.” And as they entered the house John’s voice could be heard, laughing, “But it _is_ morning…”


End file.
